Tossing the shovel aside Joseph wipes his brow. He slowly pulls the battered Bible from his pocket and thumbs through while scanning the scene before him.Seven graves. All but two of the deceased were younger than him. The fever struck quickly and most every soul on the ship had passed, including his beloved family.

Backing away slowly he picked up his axe and hefted it over his shoulder. He could see the city from here…New Orleans. He began to walk. Soon he would be on Rue Hospital at a house he heard of once from a co-worker back home.“Home…”he thought “This is as good a place as any to start a new life …”

He began walking…

Phillipe d'Etielle

It had been a long month.He disliked most of the work he had done since starting anew in the New World, but watchman at a plantation was by far his least favorite. He spent all day on horseback and all night sleeping close to the slave quarters without so much a bottle of good wine.

Luckily his employment came to a halt when Spanish soldiers came to the maison to arrest his employer for abusing his slaves. “Didn’t sit right with me anyway” he mumbled as the soldiers walked by with his previous employer “beating slaves nearly to death…”

Once again on the familiar streets of New Orleans he was finally at ease. The familiar sounds and smells came to him, reminding him once again he was home.

He moved quickly through the streets, knowing exactly the way to go. To Rue Hospital, between Chartres and Royal. No other place in the city was as sweet to him, for only here would he be a welcome sight. The women there were nearly as sweet as the wine, and they cared not as much for the look of his face as much as the look of his money…

Vinicios Silva Carneiro

“The rudeness of some people is matched only by the foulness of their smell” the doctor noted to himself as several sailors rushed past him, stinking of rum and lack of personal hygiene. He pressed on through them. “Hopefully there is a place here I can rest, preferably in a soft clean bed” he mumbled a little too loudly.One of the sailors turned and looked at him with a brown and broken smile.“Rue Hospital, sir” he slurred “finest beds in all the colonies!” He ambled off into the crowd of people filling the road by the dock.

He lifted his heavy leather case over his shoulder, looking about hopefully. “There be no porters on this dock, good doctor” the Captain laughed. Vinicios knew deep down the truth of this man, he was a pirate…it was plain to see. “This be a slave town. You’ll be needin’ ta buy one down et the parade grounds by the church. Either that er tote yer bags yerself!” His whole body shook as he laughed. But it seemed the truth, not a single porter in sight. Not even a carriage.

He moved through the crowded street looking for a sign. There, just above the heads of the crowd, hung a sign reading: Rue Hospital. He pushed with great zeal through the throng of bodies. Having made no other plans besides finding a south-bound ship, he assumed a bit of rest and a meal would not disturb his plans greatly.“I do hope he was serious” he mumbled “I’ve slept on that ship one night too many…”He continued down Rue Hospital looking for rooms. Soon he could see the all to familiar store-front sign of an absinthe house hanging in the window of a small house. Another sign just below it read: Rooms. He took a deep breath and hoped for the best as he worked his way down the street to the door, struggling slightly with his large leather case…

Hermanne Petit-Goave

“Papagayo” hit the street running. No point in staying around to see what happens next. Once the sailor’s body was found, cleverly stuffed into the bilge of the ship, all hell would break loose. Not being there when that happened seemed the wise choice.

Ducking through the open air market he weaved in and out of the patrons until he reached the street on the other side. “As safe as a babe in arms” he thought, a broad smile spreading across his face. He breathed slowly, taking in the sights and smells of the docks and market. The smell of tarte a l'oignon, griot, puole, diri a jon jon, picklese and beyen snaked past him as he looked around. Just ten paces behind him he found the source of the all too familiar smell of a home-cooked meal. Standing in front of a large canopy was a tall thin man. In his hand was a glass of akasan, he was sure of it! The man looked at him and slowly motioned for “Papagayo” to come over.

“You be de young houngan Papa Legba told me ‘bout?” he asked, not looking at the young man directly. Before “Papagayo” could answer he continued.“Bondyè tells Papa Legba, Papa Legba tells me, and now I’m tell you” he turned and looked “Papayago” in the eyes. His were blank and white. “This place be de evil place. Many devils hide ‘ere, awaitn’ de time te eat de poor white man’s soul, an’ our souls too. Papa also tell me you be de one to help stop dem…and Papa don’ lie ‘bout such tings!” He took a sip from his glass and whipped the sweat from his brow with a small dingy white cloth.“You go now, young houngan. You do as Papa Legba says Bondyè wan ya to. It be dat way” he smiled as he pointed deeper into the dark streets and alleys of the Crescent City.“You jus look fer de house with the green fairies…de House of de Risin’ Sun!”He turned and slipped behind the curtain separating the front and back of the canopy. A cool breeze blew in off the mighty Mississippi River, blowing the curtain to the side as he passed through.

The tall blind man was gone...

« Last Edit: February 20, 2007, 07:18:11 PM by the Wanderer »

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"Every normal man must be tempted at times to spit upon his hands, hoist the black flag, and begin slitting throats." ~Henry L Mencken

Phillipe looked up at the House of the Rising Sun and smiled his shark's smile. After the last month, it was good to be back to civilization. He hadn't had a decent drink or any female companionship the whole time he was at that blasted plantation. Absinthe wasn't his drink of choice, but he wasn't picky.

He idly wondered which one of the girls he'd go upstairs with. There was Biance, a French girl with laughing green eyes, who marveled at his battle scars and called him "Monsieur le Capitane". Then again, there was Margaruite, who said that she could tell fortunes. A wild one in bed, she was. But then again, he hadn't sampled Maria's charms yet. The dark eyed Spanish girl had pretensions at class, but d**ned if she wasn't belle. Too many to choose from.

He decided he'd make up his mind later. He pushed through the doors, entering the small foyer.

Hermanne had heard correctly, he mused, as his shining white smile widened. This place was far across the water, but the spirits knew it well. He was not alone here. The tall, thin man was proof of this. Bondye and Papa Legba were aware of Hermanne's perilous escape from the Island of Islands. Perhaps his course was guided, Hermanne further thought, he would not dissapoint. He would obey. It was his way.

The white man Papagayo had earlier strangled deserved his fate, and so, the ebon-skinned houngan thought, do I. He would follow this road and see where it lead. Could it be true? Was he meant to be here? the emissary of Bondye and Papa Legba had told him there were devils here. He knew well of devils. He would be ready.

Hermanne was not sure what these green faeries may be, but perhaps the spirits in this Grand Civite were of their own nature, a new world...a different way, the muscular, young man marvelled as he slowly made his way down the smell-infused streets, looking about at the populace. French, Spanish, African, men and woman of all the world, it seemed, filled the hazy, narrow streets. The "pure bloods" were noticeably absent, he thought, or maybe not absent, but surely, those the color of cocoa milk, greatly outnumbered his true brothers and sisters. These were people of mixed races, he thought as he walked, but they were even more slaves than he had imagined.

There would be a reckoning here as well, Hermanne thought, looking up from his musings, as he spied the place he was told to go...the House of the Rising Sun.

Fingering his fetish absentmindedly in his pocket, Hermanne approached the building and looked about.

PoisonAlchemist: Man Muro, you boost my confidence and then you just go crush it with a heartbreaking work of staggering genius.Pariah: Don't tell him things like that, if his head gets any bigger he'll float off like a weather ballon :p

Frederic was not a big fan of cities - the close walls reminded him more of the tight quarters aboard ship. That and the smell.

He came up shortly to the House of the rising sun - a place of ill repute, but held in legendary regard by Francois. The sailor/jack of all trades had been up and down the seaboard more then once, and he said this place was the best of them all.

Poor Francois. he thought. The sailor had the misfortune to be aboard a ship that attempted to get past a british blockade, and a musket ball had torn off a good part of his head. There will be a day of reckoning, my British Friends. You have so much to answer for.. He cut that thought off abruptly. That was not a place he wanted to go, now.

Well, let's see if one can get a good drink here. Saint's be praised I need a few... and with that pushed open the door and entered the foyey.

Phillipe looked about the plush red-lined room. Pillows, duvet’s, padded chairs and heavy curtains were all the color of blood. The mahogany bar was where his eyes finally fell. With a frightening yet satisfied grin he moved through the scantily clad women.“What do you want to drink, Captain?” The bartender, a slight fellow with thinning hair and a crooked smile leaned forward to hear Phillipe better. “Will it be the house special?”

The bartender quickly pulled a small glass from under the bar. Twirling a strange spoon with his other hand he set the glass down and expertly balanced the slotted spoon on the rim. He slid a medium sized bottle next to the glass. The contents, it appeared, was green.With a flourish he opened his hand. Between his fingers was a cube of sugar. Closing and opening it again revealed another. He placed both delicately on the odd spoon. Pulling the cork easily from the bottle it seemed as if he may have lifted it slightly, almost in reverence. He carefully poured the viscous green fluid over the sugar on the spoon, letting it drip down into the glass. Once filled he slid it over to Phillipe.

"Might I suggest having this in the company of Miss Ory over there" he said, motioning to a woman of surpassing beauty sitting by the window alone "she's one of the finest here... pure Creole." He laughed to himself and resumed his duties cleaning glasses.

The doors swung open with ease as Frederic pushed them slightly. He stood in the doorway a moment, looking at it suspiciously. Satisfied it was his huge arms and not “evil spirits” he leaned his heavy axe beside the door and looked around. The room was filled with half clothed women of every race, creed and color imaginable. Several men were scattered throughout, but a French uniform at the bar seemed to catch his attention. He tried to listen but was interrupted by a somewhat shrill but pleasant voice.

“Bonjour, mon bon homme fort, mon nom est Biance… êtes-vous pour me voir ici ? J'espère ainsi, Je suis désireux de savoir ce que vous pensez à mes seins…appliqué ?”She leaned forward just enough to show off her ample cleavage. A rather wicked smile played on her deep red lips and her eyes seemed to dance with an inner fire.He stared at her a moment, not sure how to react. Women he knew were never as brazen as this. He opened his mouth to speak when he heard a jovial voice from the bar.“….to drink, Captain? Will it be the house special?” The words seemed to break the hypnotic hold on his attention. He looked towards the bar to see who was speaking. It was the bartender, and he was speaking to the scarred man in the uniform. "A French officer? Here? And in uniform no less..." he thought. He took a closer look and realized the uniform was incomplete. Although the coat and pants were proper his boots were not. Frederic started to move past the girl towards the bar.

A breeze blew into the room. He turned to look as the door opened once again.

Papagayo slipped into the foyer quickly. He thought he heard shouting near the market just a few blocks away. “No need to be easily found” he laughed. He knew he’d be safe inside. The smell of perfume and old booze told him exactly what this place was…

Stepping into the dimly lit room, he heard two things at once. “Hail to the green fairies!” a chorus of drunken voices from the far corner shouted. The other sound he heard was a voice of softest silk, speaking low and urgently. “You are in danger here. You must leave the city or you will surely die!” The woman before him was a whore, he could tell that by her limited attire. Clutched in her hand was a deck of old worn cards. She rubbed her fingers over then nervously as she spoke. “I am called Margaruite. I must tell you...”

“Déjelo solo, ¡bruja loca! Él no necesita sus palabras a medias tanto como mis encantos…” The voice, harsh and at the same time sultry, came from a dark haired vixen walking towards the pair. She held out her hand and spoke again. “My name is Maria. You come to see me tonight, yes? We will speak of money first, then your pleasure…” She seemed to be taken of guard as a man picked her up over his shoulder and headed for the stairs. “This one’s mine, negro. Go find yourself one of your own kind” he laughed over his shoulder as he climbed up the stairs to the rooms on the second floor.

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"Every normal man must be tempted at times to spit upon his hands, hoist the black flag, and begin slitting throats." ~Henry L Mencken

Making his way across town was possibly the least fun Vinicios had had since the journey across the Atlantic. At least on the ship he could try to learn the knots the sailors had used, here it just stank.

Looking over the parade grounds he had noticed the overpowering stench of humanity, something he'd been away from in the time he spent on that ship. Deciding to forgo a porter he continued on to the place the sailor had suggested, this "House of the Rising Sun."

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For the love of meat, shut up! No one wants to hear your emo character background! My hands are literally melting away, and I'm complaining less than you!—K'seliss, Goblins

Phillippe took his drink, then turned to look at the room at large. Maria had already gone upstairs, and it didn't look like Biance or Margaruite would be his girl. He glared at the man Biance was making up to for a moment, giving him the full benefit of the bad side of his face. It couldn't be helped, he supposed. He headed for Miss Ory. He'd never seen her before, either she was new, or she'd already been engaged every time he came in. "Bon soir, mademoiselle," he said. Hopefully she spoke French; his English wasn't very good and his Spanish was impossible.

For a moment he considered the women here. No. Not now. he thought. The wounds were far too fresh, and there was always the chance he'd see herin the hereafter soon. Ah Marie! He then imagined her as he saw her last, and sought to banish that thought.

He moved quickly up to the bar - "Barkeep! You're strongest, s'il vous plaît!"

The smell of fish and baking bread wafted down the street as the good doctor walked down Rue Royale. People walked up and down the road, in between slow moving carriages, conversing in small groups. They all wore clothes befitting a fine party in Paris. They all seemed to be preoccupied with one thing or another.

As he moved deeper down the streets to his destination the scene slowly changed. Less people roamed the street here, or at least less wealthy people. Shabbier clothes, less conversation and more guards were here. The sweet smells of pastries and well cooked meals was replaced by the smells of rice and beans, boiled pork and underneath it all the slight stench of rotting vegetation. “Closer to the swamps, I’d wager” he thought as a disheveled slave woman limped by him carrying a heavy load of laundry. She smelled of sweat from fever, a smell he’d sooner avoid and forget.

As the people thinned even more and the presence of guards all but disappeared, he saw his goal. Though the street was almost devoid of people, Vinicios felt crowded. It felt like he was moving through a large crowd, bodies pressing against him from all sides.

He rushed for the door and swung it open. Tossing his bag inside, he followed it quickly and slammed the door behind him.

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"Every normal man must be tempted at times to spit upon his hands, hoist the black flag, and begin slitting throats." ~Henry L Mencken

He had learned many years ago, above all...patience. The weed will grow through rock, given enough time, and here as well, as in mighty Haiti, a revolution would one day dawn, he thought, as he silently watched the ruffian carry a giggling woman up the antebellum stairs.

The women here were not to his liking. They were painted up like clowns, smelling of vile perfume. This was not for him. The houngan glanced around to take the entire stock of the place. Why was he sent here? The Sun did not rise here, he thought in disgust, it..settled.

Sak vid pa kanpe. “empty bag can’t stand", This place was a hive of wasps.

"Sil vous plais" he heard at the bar, and both confused and disgusted, slowly approached the counter.

Several men were milling about. One asked for a strong drink, Hermanne knew a smattering of english, another was casting eyes at yet another of these women. "Bon Soir", the man, meekly attempted.

Hermanne had to be calm. He was sent here, so he must be here. He nodded awkardly at both men and asked for a glass of water, in his best, heavily-accented english..then also in french. He wasnt sure what these mongrelmen spoke.

PoisonAlchemist: Man Muro, you boost my confidence and then you just go crush it with a heartbreaking work of staggering genius.Pariah: Don't tell him things like that, if his head gets any bigger he'll float off like a weather ballon :p

The young girl looked up at Phillipe, slight confusion on her delicate face. “Ah…French is no good for me. Mo pas connait.” She seemed to look through him for a moment. Her face smoothed as her eyes glazed over. She sat straight in her chair, her eyes not seeming to focus on anything at all. She shuttered slightly as she looked up at him again.

“Vini avec moin a l’eglise. You and your friends” she spoke in a resonant voice, almost like two voices speaking in unison “he will come for you, please! The diab will come when the sun falls!” She turned her head slightly to face the open front door, where stood a slight man holding a rather heavy looking leather case. “Your fayit follows you here, Doktè Carneiro. It is shared by all of you.”

At the word “diab” Papagayo’s attention turned quickly from the glass in his hand to the octoroon sitting across the room. That was one word he’d rather not have heard. Diab was whispered death, “devil”. His glass fell to the floor as the voice of the blind man in the market rang in his ears…

Frederic turned to face the strange voice. The church? His hand moved almost unconsciously to the Bible in his pocket. He moved closer as the girl looked at him in turn. “You as well, Acadian. You are bound to this fayit as the rest are. You are all here at this time for a reason…”

She seemed to hold her rigid pose for a silent moment as the lights in the room seemed to dim and slowly sputter back to life. The young woman seemed startled when she looked about the room, all eyes on her. “I must go to confession…” she said absently as she ran from the house, nearly knocking the good doctor off his feet as she went.

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"Every normal man must be tempted at times to spit upon his hands, hoist the black flag, and begin slitting throats." ~Henry L Mencken

The tall ship slowly sailed up the Mississippi. “El Baile Sirena” was a comfortable ship, smaller than most of the fleet belonging to “de Hoa Embarque” but quite luxurious.

Jean-Paul stepped out onto the deck from his private quarters. The sky looked bleak and foreboding as dark storm clouds rolled slowly over the city. “Nouvelle Orleans” he said softly. He remembered seeing old documents and maps in his father’s study. This was to be a rich place of commerce for France once, but now it was the property of Spain. All the better, now I have a “little France” to call home…

Smoothly docked and beginning to unload its rather small amount of cargo Jean-Paul gathered his possessions and disembarked. “Bonne chance, Monsieur Maréchaux!” the captain yelled from the forward deck. He was a polite man, and Jean-Paul would have mistaken him for a man born to nobility if it wasn’t for the brand on his right arm. They spoke often on the trip over wine in the captain’s quarters. It was by accident that he noticed the “P” branded on the good captain. It was a small thing…Jean-Paul didn’t worry for his safety. “Money buys loyalty” his father always said.

He made his way through the crowded streets. The sights and smells reminded him of home and a slight smile of satisfaction grew on his lips. “This will do” he said to himself.But where to start? This place was French, no matter who ruled here. Not being a terribly religious man Jean-Paul weighed his options…it was either find an apartment on the most fashionable street he could afford or set himself to establishing credibility locally. As he had no idea where to start looking for lodgings, he decided on the latter. Looking around he knew what must be done… The Cathedral stood high above the parade grounds in front of him. This was a place where religion had strong influence, so in the church is where he must go. After all, if the priests accepted him into the city, everyone else would. At least that was the theory…

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"Every normal man must be tempted at times to spit upon his hands, hoist the black flag, and begin slitting throats." ~Henry L Mencken

Miss Eugenia Ory ran down the cobblestone streets. It had started to rain. Heavy, falling like sheets onto her delicate and frightened features. She was confused as she ran as fast as she could weaving in and out of the alleys and streets till she was on the road to the house she worked for her entire life. Why was I in that place? I would never...the master would be angry! I need to get back home before he knows I'm gone...

"I already know where you've been, chér...I sent you there."The thick voice echoed from a shadowed alley a few feet away. No light penetrated the darkness that seemed to flow from the alley like a thick sludge from the very pits of hell."You were a pawn in a game you never knew was being played, and I am sorry for that." She moved closer to the growing gloom. "Is that you master? What is happening?" She stopped short of the shadows, a look of terror frozen on her face. A cold tendril of blackness reached out and wrapped around her waist. It began drawing her in."My most heart felt apologies, chér. I would rather have used another for this task, but only you would do." The darkness seemed tangible as it slowly engulfed her inch by inch. "I will truly miss your company, but there are other more pressing matters afoot..."

A muffled scream tried to catch the wind as she died, only to be brought down by the rain and washed away...

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"Every normal man must be tempted at times to spit upon his hands, hoist the black flag, and begin slitting throats." ~Henry L Mencken

Jean-Paul wandered down the mud-soaked wooden sidewalk, trying not to stare at the motley rivermen, apparent pirates, and local citizens that jostled each other as they slogged through the clinging mud, apparently oblivious to the pouring rain. Weeds and grasses were pervasive, springing up from every untended crack; vines climbed up the sides of even the new brick structures that the Spanish had begun after fire had ravaged the city three years before. Wild grasses and the yellow blossoms of wild indigo filled empty fields where wooden structures had burned, but had not yet been rebuilt.

Despite the rain pouring off his battered tricorn, he could feel the sweat dripping under his collar as the old scholar hauled his heavy valise along the street. He would have preferred to hire a porter, but he could feel calculating eyes upon him as local brigands had sized him up as a potential victim. Any of the shiftless men loitering near the docks could have been an accomplice of theirs, hoping to lure an unsuspecting stranger into a back-alley ambush.

This bizarre place was so very different from his native Brittany! The Spring flowers would be blooming there, and on this day, the peasants’ daughters would be celebrating spring by dancing ‘round the Maypole, their folk festivals betraying memories of Bealtaine rituals forgotten long before.

Someone was following him; he felt sure of it. Two rough-looking colonials had crossed the soupy boulevard to match his movement and were approaching from behind with arrogant strides. He heard the first, an oily-looking Spaniard, accosting him in execrable French. “Monsieur! Pardonnez-moi. avez-vous besoin de l'aide avec votre valise?

“Non!” replied the uneasy émigré, as he turned to avoid the two ruffians. Throwing open his traveling coat to reveal the hilt of his sword, the aged scholar paused to assure them that their “help” would not be needed. Eyes widening at sight of their target’s weapon, the two men backed off, muttering their apologies at the “misunderstanding”. “Jackals!” muttered Jean-Paul as he retreated toward the cathedral.

Away from the docks, the neighboring buildings seemed to take on a more refined character, with new brickwork and wrought iron fixtures. As he approached the impressive new cathedral, he could see that workmen were scrambling to cover a few remaining items that hadn’t been put away in time for the downpour. A well-dressed Hispanic man was arguing with some sort of foreman, sheltering in the lee of the building, directly under the Cathedral’s stained glass window of St. Louis being blessed by his mother, St. Blanche.

Clambering up the building’s steps, Jean-Paul opened the doors and entered. Perhaps inside, he would be able to spot the familiar habits of the Capuchin brethren that tended the place.

As the girl ran from the building, Frederic thought to go after her - demand an explanation. But no, she was too quick and he was too weary to give chase. The lights might have been his imagination but the Devil was everywhere, and the almightly had not done him any favours recently.

Taking the odd drink from the barkeep, he threw it back, grimiced at it's odd taste, and ordered a second. "Do you have any rooms - for sleep? I'm too tired to indulge this evening." Part of him wanted to, but would would Marie say?

Phillipe blinked as the girl made her cryptic pronouncement. He was still standing there, slightly stunned as she fled into the night. He wasn't superstitious, exactly, but the words had roused a vague sense of unease. In any case, it had soured his mood. Maybe he ought to leave, find somewhere else to sleep... He shook his head angrily. Why was he listening to some fool woman? Even if he wasn't really in the mood for a woman anymore, The House of the Rising Sun had more or less comfortable beds. He went back to the bar and sat down, staring moodily at the bar top. He hadn't finished his drink, but suddenly he didn't want any more absinthe.

The main door opened and slammed closed again. A moment later the glass double doors to the parlor opened but this time it didn't close as swiftly.A tall man, darkly clad, stepped into the room and let the doors close behind him. He was carrying a small bag and walking stick in one hand and the other behind his back, revealing the pistol hidden under his coat.http://www.geocities.com/drewseroph/Dark_Waters/alexander_ravenhill.jpg

He walked slowly to the bar, taking time to look at every patron as he moved through the room. He set the bag on the stool next to him and rested the walking stick against his knee.

"Barkeep! Bring me a drink, and none of that "fairy" whatever you served me last time!" he yelled to the other end of the bar. He turned towards the room and leaned back, propping an elbow against the bar. He looked over at Phillipe and then followed a path to Frederic, Papagayo and the good Doctor Carneiro.

"You'd be that French fellow that works the plantations, correct? My name" he reached out his hand to Phillipe "is Alexander Ravenhill. Might I inquire as to why you come here?" He grimaced as he scanned the room again. "This is a dreadful place to try and get some sleep."He reached for the glass the barman left him and took a long pull. "Any your friends there" he motioned towards the other three men "the others the girl spoke to, they are staying here too?" He gave Phillipe a sour look. "I saw through the window, if that's what you're wondering. I've been following her for quite a while."He took another long slow drink from the glass and set it back on the bar.

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"Every normal man must be tempted at times to spit upon his hands, hoist the black flag, and begin slitting throats." ~Henry L Mencken

Jean-Paul saw what no good Catholic should ever see.The large gold cross that hung above the altar was laid on the floor, resting against a pew. Dust had already begun to coat it and light seemed not to reflect off of it at all. There was a cloud of dust in here that created an eerie glow around the crucifix. Jean-Paul stared at it, almost transfixed. A Priest cleared his throat behind him.

"Are you well, my son?" He spoke in a melodious voice befitting a priest. Jean-Paul turned and before him was a young priest in white robes.

Odd, he looks like he's preparing for mass...

The priest's broad smile almost made Jean-Paul step back. This man looked genuinely pleased to see him, more so than he expected.

"You have come! This is wonderful monsieur! We have awaited your arrival for quite some time now" the priest offered a hand to Jean-Paul."I am Pere Antione, humble servant of God and shepherd to the flock here in the Crescent... we were expecting you and the others a bit earlier. Are they with you?"

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"Every normal man must be tempted at times to spit upon his hands, hoist the black flag, and begin slitting throats." ~Henry L Mencken

Vinicios stood there stunned for a moment, at the girl's statements. To the church, she'd said? Before he could voice his confusion though she ran out and another man made his way in.

"I've been following her for quite a while." The man was saying. Starting out of his revelry Vinicios thought for a second, "For quite a while, you say, Mr. Ravenhill? And you came to tell us this why instead of continuing your chase? I, for one, would prefer to merely get a good night's sleep in something other than a filthy hammock, and have no need for any supposed friends among men that I've been in the company of for mere minutes."

Stopping himself and looking around, the doctor paused, it seemed to him that he was the only one that seemed to find anything wrong with this scene.

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For the love of meat, shut up! No one wants to hear your emo character background! My hands are literally melting away, and I'm complaining less than you!—K'seliss, Goblins

The pistol made Frederic give the Anglo more respect then he deserved. Since the questions were being addressed to Phillipe, he saw no need to speak. Then he remembered the question he posed to the bartender. Ignoring the stranger he again queried the barkeep. "Do you have any unoccupied rooms this evening?"

Perhaps I should buy a bottle to keep me company. Bottles don't talk....

"I am Père Antione, humble servant of God and shepherd to the flock here in the Crescent... we were expecting you and the others a bit earlier. Are they with you?"

Taking the priest’s hand in an arthritic grip, the émigré was taken aback by Père Antione’s enthusiastic greeting. Addressing the man in French, he replied, “Bon Père, I am not the man you sought. I am Jean-Paul Maréchaux, newly arrived from Brittany. I had hoped to give thanks to Our Lady and the Blessed St. Denis for the safe voyage here, but if you require assistance, I am more than glad to provide what humble service I may.”

Looking at the uneasy look in the man’s eyes, Jean-Paul hoped that the man hadn’t heard the rumors that followed his family. The notoriety of Le Chambre de Maréchaux had haunted him all his life; perhaps this new land would allow him to escape the muttered curses and whispers of “Sorcier!” the treacherous commoners thought he couldn’t hear.

Phillipe carefully set his glass on the bar, then turned to scowl at the newcomer. "Yes, I work the plantations, among other things. As to why I come here, it's not just to sleep. It's hard to find a girl that will put up with a face like mine," he displayed his shark's grin, "but here gold can buy a blind eye. Not that it's any of your business, Monsieur." He waved dismissively at the other men. "And I haven't any friends. I've never seen any of these people before tonight."

Alexander looked at his timepiece. It was an odd pocket watch to say the least. The face seemed to glow a sickly green color when he opened it, and it grew brighter as the seconds ticked by.“Well, my good man, you have about three seconds to decide friend from foe” he said nonchalantly. He continued to look at his watch. “Times up, old man” he said before Phillipe could answer. With a loud crash and the sound of splintering wood the floor in the center of the room burst up in a shower of bodies and splinters.

(Papagayo and the Doctor Carneiro were knocked to the floor at the foot of the stairs. Frederic was pushed up onto the bar by the force and is kneeling on top of it. Phillipe was pushed back and stumbled over a stool, but remained standing. Alexander is crouched on the floor under the edge of the bar. No damage suffered.)

Through the cloud of dust a figure rose. A man, at least in size and stance, hissed loudly and an audible snap could be heard through the whole room. As the dust began to settle the figure could be clearly seen as a man with scales covering most of his upper body and the head of an alligator.Several of the patrons were screaming, and quite a few fainted at the sight. The beast raised its clawed hand and slowly turned, as if taking count of those still standing...

(Initiative as follows: Frederic, Phillipe, the alligator man, The good doctor, Alexander, then Papagayo)

« Last Edit: March 01, 2007, 08:41:29 PM by the Wanderer »

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"Every normal man must be tempted at times to spit upon his hands, hoist the black flag, and begin slitting throats." ~Henry L Mencken

Pere Antoine looked closely at Jean-Paul through veiled eyes. “I’m sure your face is familiar to me, though I myself have never been to Brittany” his voice betrayed his worn features. He paused and looked closer at Jean-Paul’s features “I know you are the one of the men we’ve been waiting for, I’m sure of it!’The light in the cathedral dimmed slightly and the priests and workmen stopped and looked to the ceiling. A tile fell and shattered on the floor, then another.

One of the tall stained glass windows, depicting the death of King Louis, burst into the room in an explosion of muti-colored glass. Several men climbed in, dropping to the floor with ease. Their black hoods and masks hid their features well, but their stance gave a hidden clue to their identities. They all seemed to stand not entirely erect, leaning awkwardly or limping. They all were brandishing identical weapons, two long blades protruding from the front of their fists between their fingers and two smaller blades crossing their palms and sticking out from both sides of their hands. One of them, the largest of the men, looked in the direction of Jean-Paul and Pere Antoine. He spoke in a guttural tone, almost as if speaking were painful to him.“You’ve come at last…we are pleased. Now the priest and his champion will die today…”he loped forward a step “and the others? Where are they hiding?” The man laughed, the smell of rotten flesh filling the room as he spoke “no matter, we will find them as well…..attack my Brethren!”

The dark clad men advanced slowly, twisting their menacing blades in the air…

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"Every normal man must be tempted at times to spit upon his hands, hoist the black flag, and begin slitting throats." ~Henry L Mencken